by Douglas Watt
Rosina was looking sadly at her mother, to whom she bore a striking resemblance. There was something wild about her, a slight look of an Egyptian.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the last instrument he had completed in his office before leaving Edinburgh. His excitement dissipated.
Rosina removed the portrait from the wall. ‘There you are, Mr MacKenzie. Let us find your daughter’s jewel.’
They descended a spiral staircase to the first floor and entered a large room lined with wooden panels. The ceiling was a swirl of coloured flowers, the walls crowded with Italian landscapes and family likenesses.
‘This is my mother’s chamber.’
Scougall looked at a huge canvas above the fireplace.
‘My mother and father with my sister and me, in happier times, Mr Scougall,’ said Rosina.
Scougall watched MacKenzie’s eyes devour each detail. Following the advocate’s example, he tried to place everything in his memory.
The Laird of Lammersheugh was a tall man with a short beard and piercing blue eyes. He wore a blue velvet suit and a large hat with a long black feather. Lady Lammersheugh stood a full foot shorter, dressed in a stunning green velvet gown. She gazed down on the children. The thin girl of about five or six must be Euphame, the younger one Rosina. The family was grouped under a large oak tree; two wolfhounds lay on the grass beside them. He looked out of the window. The same tree still stood there. Scougall moved forward to read the artist’s name and the date: Thomas Warrender, 1675.
Rosina opened a wooden casket on the dressing-table.
‘Here it is.’
She handed MacKenzie a small jewel.
He held the emerald up to his eye.
‘It is very fine. My daughter is honoured by your mother’s generosity.’ He placed it in a handkerchief which he slipped into his pocket. ‘How is your sister, Rosina?’
‘She suffers so much. You must do something to help her.’
‘I believe that Lady Girnington stands caution for her.’
‘How long will it take? She has been sorely abused.’
‘It should only be a little time.’
MacKenzie was observing her closely. Her demeanour did not suggest that she had just lost a mother, or on top of that had a sister accused of witchcraft. There was something very determined about her. ‘I have been told that you and Mr Cant are well known to each other,’ he commented.
‘He comes to the house once a week to instruct me on religious matters. I give him little thought otherwise.’
‘What does he think of you?’
‘I do not know, Mr MacKenzie.’ There was a hint of annoyance in her voice. ‘Ministers are beneath me, whatever you may be insinuating.’
‘Some have said you would be a beneficiary of your mother and sister’s demise.’
Rosina’s eyes burned with anger. ‘I do not care to be spoken to in such a manner. Murdoch will show you out.’
She turned on her heel and left the room.
MacKenzie returned to the portrait. He tried to remember Purse’s words. ‘Find the details of Lady Lammersheugh’s latterwill in your notes, Davie.’
Scougall flicked through the pages of his notebook and began to read slowly from his shorthand. ‘“I, Grissell Hay, Lady Lammersheugh…”’
‘Move to the section about my bequest,’ MacKenzie snapped impatiently.
Scougall turned the page:
‘“To Mr John MacKenzie, advocate, Clerk of the Court of Session, I leave the small picture which hangs in the library at Lammersheugh. And to his daughter Elizabeth MacKenzie I leave an exquisite emerald to be found in the box in my chamber…”’
MacKenzie knew these words must be significant. But he could make nothing of them.
CHAPTER 26 - The Steeple
A WINDING STAIRCASE led into the steeple of Lammersheugh Kirk. At first Scougall could not make out Euphame in the shadows of the windowless room. Only a couple of candles burned beside the guards who sat in a corner. A shape like a sack of grain was revealed at the far wall as his eyes adjusted. She was lying forward as if asleep, knees pulled up to her chin.
One of the guards rose, took a long wooden pole which lay against the wall, and walked over to her. He prodded her with it. She raised her head, opening startled eyes.
MacKenzie and Scougall looked down on the exhausted face of Euphame Hay. Scougall covered his mouth with his hand; the smell of excrement was overpowering.
‘It is John MacKenzie, Euphame. Your mother’s lawyer,’ he said softly.
Euphame’s bloodshot eyes appeared to recognise him. But her words were so hoarse as to be incomprehensible.
As MacKenzie kneeled beside her, she recoiled.
‘It is all right, my dear. We are here to help you. I came to visit you at the house before you were imprisoned.’
A gurgling sound came from her mouth as she tried to speak. She wanted to tell them about her torture. How the daughter of Alexander Hay of Lammersheugh was being abused by the men of the parish. She wanted to ask if her sister was accused; if the servants of the house were safe. But her throat could only emit the sounds of a suffering animal.
‘Do not try to speak, Euphame. Keep your strength. We are doing all we can to secure your release. I have employed Rosehaugh on your behalf. Lady Girnington is appealing to the session. She will stand caution for you.’ MacKenzie bent forward and whispered in her ear: ‘For your sister’s sake, for everything you hold dear, for the memory of your mother and father, do not confess. Do not confess.’ He whispered the last words as forcefully as he could without being overheard by the guards. There was a slight nod of her head followed by another unintelligible reply.
Scougall was horrified by Euphame’s appearance. He was also beset by conflicting emotions. He did not know if she was a witch or not. The minister and elders had the interests of all the parishioners at heart. The kingdom was in danger. If she was a witch, MacKenzie was assisting a creature beholden to the Devil. However, it was possible that she was innocent. Some were accused wrongly. If so, she had suffered terribly. Those who brought the charges against her had sinned.
They descended the steep staircase and entered the body of the kirk. Scougall looked round the simple interior. It was a fine building. He noticed writing on the walls. Moving closer, he read in swirling black script: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ The Ten Commandments were scrolled on the whitewash. His eyes moved along – ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.’
‘Let us pay a visit to Mr Muschet,’ MacKenzie interrupted.
Proceeding down the High Street, they came to a three-storey house and entered a shop on the ground floor. It was crammed full of merchandise: fruit and vegetables, clothing, ironwear, wooden tools. MacKenzie addressed the woman behind the counter.
‘We seek Archibald Muschet.’
‘My brother is not here. Who might I say is calling?’
MacKenzie introduced them. ‘Do you know when he will be back?
‘There is a meeting of the session. They have much business to attend to. The number of witches grows!’
‘Have there been more arrests?’
‘A confessing witch has named others.’
‘A confessing witch!’ MacKenzie looked grave. ‘Do you mean Euphame Hay?’
‘She does not confess yet. But she will. They all do eventually. The pricker has found the Devil’s Mark on her. She is a witch, like her mother.’
MacKenzie inhaled deeply. Time was running out. He let his eyes wander round the shop. ‘We will return later,’ was all he said. By the door there was a display of hats, some of which had long blue feathers attached to them. ‘Look, Davie. These are identical to the one I found on the floor of the cottage,’ he murmured.
‘We must find out who has purchased them,’ replied Scougall.
MacKenzie took one down and tried it on. Turning to Muschet’s sister, he asked the price.
‘Five pounds, sir.’
‘That is ve
ry high.’
‘They are manufactured in London.’
‘Have you sold many?’
‘I have not sold one. My brother might have.’
At that moment a young woman dressed in a dirty linen skirt with an old bonnet on her head deposited her messages on the counter.
‘We will not serve you here,’ Muschet’s sister snapped. ‘You have no credit, Helen Rammage.’
‘I hae siller, Mrs Thomson.’
The shopkeeper examined the coins in her hand and took two of them. Gathering the goods in her apron, the young woman left the shop.
MacKenzie was struck by the blue stains on the hands of Muschet’s sister.
CHAPTER 27 - A Visit to the Manse
‘YOU DO ME a great honour, Rosina.’ Cant beckoned her into his chamber. He was greatly surprised by her arrival; surprised, and exhilarated.
‘I will not waste time on pleasantries, Mr Cant.’ She tried to curtail her natural haughtiness. ‘You must do something to secure Euphame’s release. My sister is in a pitiful state. Surely you cannot believe that she is a witch.’
‘We have the confession of Margaret Rammage. She has been pricked by Kincaid. She did not bleed from her inner thigh and the small of her back. There were similar accusations against your mother.’
‘Rammage was a common peasant! How can her words stand against those of my sister, who is a laird’s daughter?’
‘The session must investigate all cases of witchcraft.’
‘I believe my aunt has appealed to you on Euphame’s behalf. I advise you not to stand in her way.’
‘I have heard nothing from her ladyship. But I must let the law follow its course.’
‘Are you sure, Mr Cant? I was told by MacKenzie that she has demanded her release and will stand caution. My sister is sorely abused!’
‘Rosina.’ Just saying the word gave him pleasure. ‘We cannot always account for the actions of others. All are tempted by sin. Your mother and sister have covenanted themselves with Satan. They have chosen evil. You must accept this. Prayer will help. Ask God to give you strength. He will guide you through these difficult times. He will assure you of his bounty.’
‘Is there nothing that can be done, Mr Cant?’ Her voice softened.
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ replied the minister. But the words were not said with the venom with which they had been declaimed in the kirk.
Rosina closed her eyes. ‘I feel faint. Perhaps I might take off my cloak until I am recovered enough to return home.’
Cant stood up to help. Underneath the long black cloak she was not dressed in mourning, as he had expected, but in a green velvet gown. He recalled the description of Grissell in Margaret Rammage’s confession. Green was a colour like any other. It was a coincidence, nothing more. He had hardly slept over the last few days. The pricking of Euphame had taken much out of him. God was asking much of him. He reminded himself that Rosina was feeling faint.
‘Would you care for some water?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you.’
She lowered her head. Tears were on her cheeks.
‘Please, Rosina. God will give you strength.’
The sight of the dress had aroused him. He wanted to touch her, to feel her. He needed to hold another human being. He had never done so as an adult. He could feel his penis hard as stone. The blood was pumping in his head. He knelt down beside Rosina and took her hands in a comforting gesture. But he did not want to comfort her. He wanted to possess her. His mind was inflamed by visions of them lying together. Dare he raise his hand onto her arm, touch the soft white skin? Dare he kiss her hands? Dare he confess that he worshipped her? He took his hand from hers and raised it up her lower arm in a slow caress. She did not move it away. She did not move!
The feelings inside his groin intensified to a pitch and then released. He groaned slightly. As he did so, she turned to him. The tears were gone. There was a smile on her face. But when she spoke, it was with none of the gentleness that she had shown before. Her voice was suffused with the disdain of her class for his. ‘I am sure there is something we can do for her, Mr Cant.’
At that moment his mind seemed to explode. Blurting out ‘Excuse me,’ he staggered from the room. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back against it, shaking, his mind pulsing with images from the confessions of witches. Satan was close, so close. He had been tempted. He was shown to be weak. Then, another dreadful thought swept through him. He wondered if they had accused the right sister.
CHAPTER 28 - A Few Hours in Haddington
PURSE INDICATED THAT they should sit. Scougall recalled the reading of Lady Lammersheugh’s latterwill the day before – the hushed sense of expectation followed by bemusement. He had been agitated after his late arrival. He now had time to examine the office more closely. It was the workplace of a country writer. Once he had dreamed of working as such a lawyer in Musselburgh. But he did not want to settle there now. He had seen too much of the world. His small office on the High Street of Edinburgh was a stone’s throw from St Giles’ Kirk. He could watch national events unfold from his window. Provincial life no longer had any appeal.
‘Mr MacKenzie, Mr Scougall, I was expecting you.’
Without his wig, Purse looked younger than he had seemed the day before. Scougall guessed he was in his mid-forties.
‘There is work to be done, gentlemen. The trustees will administer the Lammersheugh estate until the girls come of age or are married. I believe that will not be long.’
‘Why do you say that, Mr Purse?’ probed MacKenzie.
‘Euphame.’ He stopped briefly before continuing. ‘I am forgetting myself. I have heard that Rosina is to be married to the Laird of Clachdean. That is what I have been told by her ladyship.’
‘And when Euphame is released?’
‘You know as well as I that she will be difficult to settle on a husband after such accusations.’
‘So, in one way or another, Lady Girnington will have authority over Lammersheugh?’
‘Until the girls come of age, or marry.’
‘How are relations between the Laird of Clachdean and Lady Girnington?’ asked MacKenzie.
Purse hesitated. ‘You put me in a difficult position. I act for both parties. I will tell you only what is known on the High Street of Haddington. Financial obligations exist between them. The laird has led a dissolute life and is heavily in debt. I believe he owes large sums to her ladyship.’
‘So she may control Lammersheugh and Clachdean?’ added Scougall.
The lawyer smiled. ‘You are very perceptive, Mr Scougall.’
‘Let me see, Mr Purse,’ continued MacKenzie, ‘how much would you say the rents of the three estates add up to?’
‘I do not know, sir.’
‘Well, let me guess. Girnington provides perhaps £10,000 a year, pounds Scots of course, Lammersheugh £10,000 and Clachdean £5,000. How much does that make in total, Davie?’
Scougall, who was noting down the figures, quickly added them up. ‘£25,000, sir.’
‘A very healthy sum, Mr Purse.’
‘I do not believe it would be so much. Clachdean is not a productive estate. It has not been well managed.’
MacKenzie’s voice lost its playfulness. ‘I am perturbed. Euphame and Rosina are vulnerable young girls. A terrible accusation hangs over one. If something was to happen to Rosina, the Lammersheugh estate could pass to Lady Girnington by escheat.’
Scougall looked up from his notebook. ‘What drives her on so? She has surely reached an age when she should be thinking of retirement.’
Purse turned to Scougall. ‘Men and women seek to accumulate. Her ladyship may feel that she has not been given the recognition she deserves. She was a great beauty in her youth before grossness afflicted her, a rival of the Duchess of Lauderdale in London in the days of Cromwell.’
‘Revenge, sir?’ proposed Scougall.
‘A kind of revenge…’ added Purse.
‘But she is an old woman who may not live long. Who will benefit from it all if she dies?’
‘The terms of her ladyship’s will are secret.’ Purse’s eyes moved from Scougall to MacKenzie. He coughed loudly.
‘Who are the curators of the Lammersheugh estate?’ asked MacKenzie.
‘Her ladyship, the colonel, Woodlawheid, Muschet, Rankine and myself. We must meet soon to discuss how it is to be administered.’
MacKenzie rose slightly from his chair, as if on the point of leaving, then dropped down again and posed another question. ‘Mr Purse, may I enquire where were you on the twenty-second day of October, the day on which Lady Lammersheugh died?’
‘I was in my office all day. I met with her ladyship and the colonel in the morning,’ Purse replied, unruffled.
‘What was the nature of the meeting?’
‘That is confidential.’
‘Did you meet the Laird of Woodlawheid later?’
Purse thought for a moment. ‘No. I did not see Cockburn on that day.’
MacKenzie’s expression lightened. ‘How do you stand on politics, Mr Purse?’
The lawyer was surprised by the change of subject. ‘I’m afraid I do not follow you, sir.’
‘There is a pamphlet on your desk.’
MacKenzie pointed to a sheet of paper sticking out from a pile of documents. He leaned forward and read out the title – The Sad Sufferings of an Afflicted Church.
Purse was taken aback. ‘I like to keep abreast of developments. Change was ever in the air. The King is not popular. His policies disgruntle many.’
MacKenzie was enjoying himself. It was always good to disarm an opponent during an interview.
‘Do they disgruntle you, Mr Purse?’
‘Politics is bad business for a lawyer. We must make money whichever way the wind blows. All I will say is that having a Catholic King is dangerous for this kingdom.’
Scougall nodded in agreement. The thought of such a monarch on the throne of Scotland was abhorrent. The recent conversions to Popery were very worrying, suggesting the rising power of Antichrist. But he was not sure why MacKenzie was asking Purse about this.
